Déjà Vu
by Monty Twain
Summary: From the peculiar writer who brought you "Bare Feet", "Norbury", "Read It Aloud", "A Row" etc, here's a real fanfiction! Please read and review- Summary inside. Mystery, eh?
1. Detective Inspector Giles Lestrade

A couple of words about this fic: It isn't going to be clichéd. I personally think that a sin. And hopefully it isn't going to be boring, which I also consider a sin. This is also going to be a proper fic; this isn't a simple oneshot like I'm normally up to on this site. But, bear in mind; I never thought I'd do a fic set in 2008 for Holmes, so I have made little changes to sets and possibly to the appearance and names (for instance I couldn't see Holmes going about with the name Sherlock in 2008, so I had to change that). In core, the characters should be just the same as ever, simply dumped in the present day. It doesn't involve time-travel. It may involve a few things that may seem out of place or at least a little eccentric. But that's the idea I'm going for. They don't actually belong in 2008, they just think they do. Now, I'm excited about this, so I hope you like it. I'll shut up now.

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Giles got into his Ford Fiesta and sat, watching his breath cloud in front of him. He had just scraped the frost from his windscreen. It was January, and it was bitterly cold.

He put the ignition key in, put his safety belt on and turned it. The Fiesta coughed and spluttered, then the engine died. He tried again. The car shivered at the cold, then shook itself off and started.

Giles did 30mph all the way to the Yard. He paid and displayed. Then he parked, took out his radio (he hadn't even played it), put it in the glove compartment and got out. He rubbed his hands together to try to coax some warmth out of them. Straightening his tie, he walked up Victoria Street into the ugly 60's 20-storey HQ building.

Air conditioning blew onto a patch of hair that was beginning to thin.

Giles marched into his private office, exactly 3 minutes early, and sat down for exactly 3 minutes relaxation before the day would begin.

He was forty-five seconds in when a fresh-faced young officer named Stanley Hopkins stood and peered through the single pane of fibreglass in the woodchip door. He blinked nervously and cleared his throat, the sound muffled by the barrier between him and Giles. 

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Come in." Giles regretted it the moment he said it. Hopkins shuffled in front of the desk.

"There's a call for you, sir."

"It's not nine o'clock yet!"

"He says he knew you'd be here early." Giles frowned.

"How? Who is it?"

"A Mr. Samuel Holmes."

Giles Lestrade closed his eyes in quiet frustration. He sighed, looked up at Hopkins, then put his hands in the air dramatically. "Put him though."


	2. A Prank Call

Holmes' grin tended to make him look wolfish. It was all bared teeth and blazing. It was a wicked grin that he flashed Lestrade down the phone. Watson was glad he was on the observing end of it. The smirk had widened at the sound of poor Giles' voice, and it had closed again to try and control his shoulders, which were quivering from laughter.

"Good morning, Giles."

"Morning, Holmes."

"Guess what?"

"What?"

"Watson!" Holmes sniggered. Watson looked up from his Weetabix, dazed somewhat- he wasn't good in the morning before he had finished his tea. He sat, hair all fluffed up (yet wearing his work suit) staring at Holmes, who sobered somewhat under the look, if temporarily. "No, to be honest, I thought I'd call you I might call you, Lestrade, because life is tedious."

"Is that the only reason you called New Scotland Yard, and bothered a Detective Inspector?"

"Nobody calls it '_New_ Scotland Yard'. It's just 'the Yard.'" 

"I'm going to hang up on you."

"NO, DON'T!" Holmes' bellow rattled Watson's eardrums.

"What? "

"Watson!" This time Holmes buckled over laughing. He smacked his lap through his grey dressing gown. "No, err, wait there, I'm getting something out of the fridge, I'll put you on loudspeaker." He covered the mouthpiece. "If you **don't** find this funny, you are a killjoy, John Watson." He pressed loudspeaker and set the phone down while he stood to go to the fridge.

"Are you going to get around to what you were going to tell me?"

"No."

"Then I will hang up."

"I am being very immature." Holmes raised his eyebrows at Watson, who couldn't resist any longer, and simpered back at him.

"Yes, you _are_." Lestrade was evidently wound up.

"Watson sends his love."

"I'm sure he does."

Watson, as a matter of fact, had just regurgitated brown-grey sludge into his bowl. Holmes raised a finger to his lips and frowned at him, but it was too late. Giles had noticed he was on loudspeaker still.

"Bye, Holmes."

"Goodbye, Giles." Watson pressed the red button and looked up at Holmes, who was still up, staring at the contents of the fridge. 

"Haven't you got an afternoon shift today, Watson?"

"No, I'm on earlys all week."

"Then pray, **why** are you lying to yourself-"He closed the fridge (having taken nothing out) and peeled something off the door-"in this post-it note?" 

"Oh, I…" -Holmes brought the post-it note in front of his face and Watson took it-"I am doing lates! Oh."

"I thought so."

"You are a smart-arse," said Watson fondly, feigning exasperation.

"I am."

"I'm going to bed."

"Oh, how absolutely despicable of you. Surely you'd prefer to come on a walk with me?" Holmes smiled again.

"Err, all right. Regent's Park?"

"Yes. I can't be bothered to walk any further today."


	3. Leather Jacketed Man

Holmes stood outside 221b Baker Street and wrapped his coat a little tighter around him, while Watson draped his scarf around his neck, the thing flapping madly in the wind. 

As they began to walk, their shoulders brushed against each other, no longer uncomfortable in close proximity, something that can only come with a friendship that was "getting on a bit", as their's was. Holmes' stride slowed to match Watson's slight limp, from a wound he had got in Afghanistan, when he'd been in the army. (Holmes was a Contentious Objector sort of person, but they didn't really talk about it.) 

Together, they wandered up the pavement to Regent's Park. The sun poked through a gap in the clouds, and for a moment both of them blinked, blinded. Holmes nearly stepped under a bus, and Watson pulled him back by his coat hood- he was wearing a loose parka.

After safely crossing the road, they walked past the shops, and the roads got busier.

A young man in a leather jacket jostled past them, and Holmes abruptly sped off after him. Watson was spun around and staggered into the wall, wondering what an earth was going on.

"Holmes?!" he called. But he was gone, tails of his coat darting between pedestrians. He started after him. "Holmes!"

"YOU IDIOT! HE'S GOT YOUR WALLET!" Holmes bellowed back, his skinny frame rapidly disappearing.

"Shit!" Watson breathed. He followed Holmes, who followed the thief, who dashed around a dark corner into the back roads. Holmes knew these roads well, Watson remembered, but he seriously doubted him when he sped in a completely different direction. Sighing, he followed, and they turned another corner. And another. Watson had now completely lost his bearings- and his breath. Suddenly, they came up right behind the young thief.

Watson's leg throbbed. 

Holmes was relentless; he was top form and pissed off. The thief knocked his knee on a drainpipe, but kept going, skipping slightly in pain. Another corner, then light filtered through, and they could hear cars again. The image was brief. The young man twisted around and kicked Holmes in the shins, and out of the blue he was over, panting and curled up, as he received an extra kick- Watson couldn't see where. It seemed to go dark again.

Watson's own breath rattled in his chest, bashing against vital organs, covering the sound of the cars. He ignored it. He clouted the man on the back from behind before he could strike Holmes again, and he sprawled over. Watson bent and picked up his wallet, and was pushed over and he acquired a kick of his own. 

The young man's shoes slapped the ground as he ran off.

Holmes struggled to his feet. "OI!!" He ran three steps, and awkwardly hugged his chest and crouched down, gritting his teeth in his pain. His legs shook, but he slowly stood again.

"John?"

"I'm fine." This was a lie, but it didn't exactly matter. "You?"

"Chipper." Holmes laughed- a harsh bark.

"Let's go home."

"Yes, lets." He grabbed Watson's hand and pulled him up, and they stared at each other of a moment. Each was covered in dirt- a film of wet London dust, not exactly mud. Each slowly raised his eyes to meet the other, wandering the full extent of his injuries.

"You got your wallet back, then."

"Yes."

"Cool." Watson started to walk back the way they had come. Holmes didn't move.

"Baker Street is _that _way, Watson."

"Oh." 

They took a step out, and the wind grazed their cheeks viciously, but in a few hundred yards they were back at Baker Street.

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Next Week: Mrs Hudson!! YAY!! Should be more regular in posts now, I had a short bout of writers block on this.


	4. The Mother Hen

Holmes and Watson opened the door and staggered up the stairs, which seemed, like the end of the rainbow, to get further and further away

Holmes and Watson opened the door and staggered up the stairs, which seemed, like the end of the rainbow, to get further and further away. 

"Mrs Hudson!" called Watson. "You couldn't get us some soup or something could you?"

A little old woman appeared out of an alcove with squinty eyes and donning a sunflower-print dress despite the weather, the embroidery distorted by bulges that grow with age. Mrs Hudson was, however, closer to a mother to the two men than either of their own mothers were. 

"What have you two been doing?" she gasped on seeing Holmes' gaunt form bent over as Watson half hauled him up the stairs. 

"I'll sort it, Mrs Hudson; just get some soup, something _easy_ to eat? Pot Noodle?"

"I will _not _make you something that has the same ingredients as glue, John!" Watson hated the name John. He growled and heaved up the last stair.

"Go crazy; just make us some food, fast. I'm starved." She muttered an old lady curse and disappeared into the kitchen.

Holmes was already horizontal on the sofa when Watson turned around.

"That was fun," he murmured.

"Yeah, a bag of laughs. Like being hit around the head with a brick."

Holmes grinned. "I think I've broken a rib."

"You're joking."

"No."

"Oh, no." Watson groaned, peering down at him. "Can I have a look at it?"

"Do you have to? We could just have a trip to the hospital."

"I'm a doctor. People don't want to waste their taxes on you."

"Very well." He lifted his jumper up. There was certainly a nasty bruise there. 

Watson carefully took two fingers and pressed them against the rib in question. Holmes flinched.

"That hurt?"

"No, your hands are cold."

"Oh." Watson cupped his hands together and blew, then rubbed them together. Holmes stared at him, oddly vulnerable looking, his unkempt hair falling back onto the sofa. Watson raised his hand again, frowning and smiling at him at the same time, and gently pressed the rib again. Holmes hissed. 

"They're still cold."

"No, they aren't. I'm getting some compression wraps." Watson hurried off to his room; and lay flat on the bed to retrieve his first aid kit from under it. He skidded into the living room just as Mrs Hudson arrived with the soup. Holmes roughly put his jumper back down again, but she had already seen it.

"What's going on, Sam?" Holmes also hated his first name. Too boring.

"We got mugged," said Holmes provocatively. Mrs Hudson went white.

"Holmes!" Watson said quickly, glaring at him. "It wasn't like that."

"It was exactly like that, Watson. A man tried to steal your wallet, we ran in pursuit of him, and he tried to beat us up. And succeeded." Watson frowned at him. 

"Mrs Hudson-"

"There really is no need to patronise me, John." She looked at him piercingly. "So, you got in a fight with this ruffian. Did he take your wallet in the end?"

"No. We got it back."

"And why is your roommate lying on the sofa awaiting bandages?" He glanced down at the white rolls in his hand. He opened his mouth to speak, and looked at Holmes out of the corner of his eye, who had suddenly developed the sense to keep quiet. "He kicked Holmes in the chest, and he broke- fractured, really- a rib, I checked, and now he needs a couple of days at home for the bone to knit again properly. They should heal in a couple of months, if that, with rest, and he'll be up before long." He stopped, searching for forgiveness from Holmes. He flashed a quick smile. 

"Watson -for the lack of a better word- saved me. The thug ran off when Watson hit him, and Watson earned his own kick as he was retrieving his wallet."

Mrs Hudson stared from one to the other. "You'll be wanting an ice pack if he's broken a rib."

"That would be good, yes."

"I'll go and get some." She left slowly, and while they waited Watson set up a chair by Holmes' side to best treat the wound. They fixed their eyes on each other for a moment.

"I'm going to be taking up the sofa for a while, then."

Watson's mouth went dry. "Yes, probably."

"Could you get me a book? I hate daytime telly."

"Yeah, sure. Which book?"

"I'm reading 'Chemistry in 1880-WW1' right now. It's on my bedside table."

"It sounds thrilling."

"Just because I don't like trashy novels." Watson got up. "And one more thing?"

"What?"

"My tobacco tin."

Mrs Hudson arrived with the ice pack and Holmes read around Watson's arms as he put it on to reduce swelling and bandaged him. He wore the same expression as one who is watching TV when somebody else Hoovers in the same room. After a while, Holmes lit up his "old man" pipe, as Watson called it, and soon he was asleep. Watson called his practise and asked for a few days off to tend for him, sat and pretended to read in the armchair his friend normally took, and after listening to Holmes' regular breaths, found himself dozing long into the afternoon.

Please read and review, it's better than chocolate.


	5. The Client

Chapter: Watson's POV

Chapter: Watson's POV

Holmes was being ridiculous. Stupid. Intolerable. He'd sat there on that sofa for three weeks and all he had done was complain.

"I'm bored."

"Are you really."

"Yes. Get me an evening edition of the paper; I need to laugh at the people in the agony columns." Holmes ran a kind of private detective agency, usually I wasn't involved- it just gave him enough to live at our rooms, and that was all that mattered to me. It wasn't his real job, per say: he was a chemist sometimes, but he'd been out of work longer than he was in it for the entire time we'd spent living together.

Sigh. "All right."

"And can I have some chocolate or something?"

"What kind?" I'd be rummaging through his change- arranged in little piles according to size.

"Don't take my money; I broke a rib for your wallet!"

"Okay, okay."

"Could I have some wine gums?"

"Is that what you want from the shop?"

"Yes. Wine gums are good." Wolfish grin. He opens his mouth to say something.

"I'm not getting you any more baccy. You'll get lung cancer."

"Fine."

I give him a suspicious look.

"Why is it fine?"

"Because I haven't run out yet."

And so on.

He'd been so bad; I'd started taking walks just to get away. I was writing again, though, and I was starting to get better. I'd written stuff in Afghanistan, but never anything good- generally overemotional things about home and the men who had died that day- mostly I didn't even know them, but I still mourned.

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It was the middle of the afternoon on a Monday in February -I don't remember which, I'd lost track of time being out of work- when a gent of about 50 or so visited us.

He had whiting brown hair, all fluffed up, and a brown suit I hadn't seen the like of since medical school. He had a moustache that was a little thicker than mine, curled up slightly at the ends, and kind eyes which were a little too deep set to see the colour of. He marched up the stairs, and when he got up he looked at the pair of us as though he was staring back in time.

"Hello?" said Holmes, cross legged on the sofa, looking up from his next book. He was quicker than I to notice that a strange man had just walked into our flat (he hadn't even knocked), and that this was _not_ the done thing.

"Are you... Well, of course you are, of course you are. You are Mr. Holmes." He looked up at me. "And you are Dr. Watson." He smiled at me unnervingly.

Holmes glanced up at me as well, eyebrows raised. "Relative of yours?"

"No. Why would you think that?"

"He looks like you. I suppose it's the moustache…"

The man was still standing there, watching us with eyes shining. I personally didn't see what was so special about us. We both turned to him at the same time.

"Are you here for a reason, in which case you should take your coat off and hang it on the hat stand to your right, or are you going to just pay for your cinema ticket and go home?" Holmes looked at him penetratingly. The man hung his coat, gloves and scarf obediently.

"I have a case for you, Mr Holmes. It is of the utmost importance to me."

"Yes? Who are you?"

"I'd prefer not to say my name."

I glanced at Holmes. "We can't take anything that involves running around, I'm afraid. Holmes broke a rib and can't get up and about very easily."

"Oh, that doesn't matter."

Holmes frowned. "But you said it was of the utmost importance."

"It is. But I'm sure _you_ can solve it very quickly." He gave a start with an outburst of concern. "You broke a rib?"

"Yes."

"How? I was sure…"

"Sure of what?" said Holmes, neatly sidestepping the question.

"It doesn't matter. I have a case. I'm looking for Toby Gregson. He's missing. I can't find him anywhere."

"Have you tried Scotland Yard? Missing Persons and all that?"

"They wouldn't take the case."

"Why?"

"Lestrade is a fool."

"Yes, he is. Why didn't he take your case? It sounds as though it's pretty serious. And why did you not come by car? You can drive, but you came by train." It sounded to me a far fetched guess, but Holmes had a way of proving himself right when asked. The man didn't seem at all phased. Instead he just allowed a grin to spread over his face. Holmes seemed slightly disappointed the man didn't ask how he knew, but I anted to know.

"How did you know that?"

"Oh, he didn't park in the vacant space outside, and his shoes are _completely_ wet from the snow, so he didn't walk up the road from another parking space." This triggered another beam from our visitor.

"How did you know he drove?"

"Who wears driving gloves against the snow, if they don't drive?" I looked up at the gloves that were balancing precariously on our hat stand. They were indeed the leather elderly gentleman driving kind.

"Hmm."

Holmes turned back to the man. "Do you have a description of the man, a photograph, perhaps? Where was he last seen?"

"I don't have a photograph of him. I don't- well, I sort of know him. Lestrade wouldn't take the case because I don't know where he _would be _if he were here- I've not a clue where to start."

"Eh? "

"I assumed he'd be at Scotland yard already."

"Why?"

"I thought he worked there."

Holmes and I exchanged looks. I was used to a fair bit of eccentricity with Holmes, but this was just strange. There was a disbelieving pause.

"What did he look like?"

He looked up as if recalling a distant memory. "Well, he's tall, pale, flaxen haired."

"Poor man. Still, it's better than being ginger." Holmes looked up at me. I frowned.

"I'm not." I pulled on my hair "It's auburn."

"Sure?"

"Yes!"

"Well, if you're sure." He looked at the man. "I will try my best to find the man you are looking for. Will you leave your telephone number?"

"No, I don't have one." He got up to leave, and I held the door open for him. Holmes stared at him until he was gone.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

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Sorry about the irregular size of chapters, but I didn't want to be skimpy. Next week- Is it truly an armchair case? What does Lestrade have to say? And _who_ is this mystery client?


	6. Rumplestiltskin

Chapter: Watson's POV

Holmes' POV.

Watson was sat writing again. This was like a whisper on the radio- a near-silent intrusion on my thoughts, but _because_ it was quiet I was concentrating on it. He insisted on using the loudest, scratchiest Parker the world has ever known. I felt my jaw loosen in annoyance.

"What can you possibly have to write about for an _entire hour_? We haven't done anything in _days_."

"Oh, I'm writing about our visitor."

"The client?"

"Yes."

"Really. He doesn't know the man. Besides, he only wanted to come and see us."

"We don't know him."

"He knew us. He was acting as though we were his long-lost children." My eyebrows rose.

"What do we do about his Mr. Gregson?"

"We find out about our client's name first, then we'll be able to find Gregson much quicker."

"Why, do you think he's lying?"

"No. He honestly doesn't know where he is, otherwise he wouldn't have come. It's just I'm curious to know who he is, and why Lestrade wouldn't help him, and who told him to look for Gregson, seen as he doesn't even know him."

"Well, he admitted that."

"He didn't say why he was so concerned for a man he doesn't know. Possibly Gregson has something Rumplestiltskin is after, and he hasn't even _tried_ Lestrade. He could quite easily not have wanted the police involved."

"Hence he came to you."

"Yes. Of course, he could well want me rather than the police anyway. Giles _is_ a fool." I laughed and a shot of pain ran up my side. Watson, bless him, nearly grabbed my arm -I saw him wince in sympathy- but thought better of it.

"Are you really that good?"

I felt myself cringe slightly, but I decided that fake ego was the way to go. "Well, I am. I'm quite good at this sort of thing."

"I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't. I didn't tell you."

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For fifty-three minutes I sat listening to the Blues Brothers, if nothing else then to block out Watson's quiet racket. I had been used to this habit of his- when I had first moved in with him and he had just got back from Afghanistan. He had finished his doctorate and had that terrible start to his career- shot in his leg and shoulder- and he had a legitimate excuse to. Now it was just a habit. Back then I hadn't asked about it. I didn't really know him back then. I was broke, so was he, and we gravitated to each other through the rest of London like the crumbs in a coat pocket.

I didn't need to ask him anyway, I could read his facial features quite well anyway. He seemed to write sentimental, or romantic, or exciting things and none of those categories particularly appeal to me. I was personally glad he hadn't asked me to read anything; to spare his privacy and my embarrassment.

Anyway, I had been listening to Blues Brothers for what seemed an _age_ when Watson burst in my room. He did a little double take at my position- I was perched on the windowsill smoking the last smoke left in my pipe, which probably wasn't good for my ribs – but sat down on a chair in the corner of my room. I had never sat on the chair, Mrs Hudson had once dumped it there and never taken it away. What grown man sits in the corner of the room? Well, Watson I suppose.

I realised I wasn't making whatever he had to say any easier for him. I stretched down and put Jake and Elwood on pause.

"Yes, Watson?" He seemed entirely uncomfortable. I blame the chair.

"Lestrade called." His brows knotted together and he licked his lips. He clearly had bad news.

"And?"

"Um Holmes…" He stopped again. He must have had a good reason for disturbing my Bluesathon. "He's found the body of a man of about fifty, with white hair and a brown suit."

"Rumplestiltskin?"

"Could you at least be a _little _more sensitive?" He said hotly. I had forgotten he had never really had such a call before. I looked down.

"He had written my name down on his hand, hadn't he?"

"A piece of paper, actually. But how did you know that?"

"Well why else would Lestrade call me on a murder case? He _must _have known he was my client. And how else would he find out from a dead man but by searching him?"

"It wasn't just your name on the paper, though. There was mine, Stamford, and Lestrade's, and a good few other men."

"Did you write them down?" I asked. A piece of folded paper was tossed my way. It read as follows:

Sherlock Samuel Holmes

Dr John Watson

Giles Lestrade

Mycroft Mick Holmes

Prof. James Moriarty

Stanley Hopkins

Tobias Toby Gregson ?

"My brother's name is on here."

"You have a brother?"

"Yes, but let's move on from that…"

"I've known you, what, three years or so, and you never mentioned you had a brother?" This was evidently going to hold us back a bit.

"No, I clearly didn't!"

"All right, we'll talk about that later."

"Oh, _shall we?_" I sighed. "Right, well he has some different names on the sheet to the ones we actually have."

"Well probably just means he got them wrong."

"Or someone _told _him wrong. He must have been looking for us. Or even…" I stared down at the posh handwriting. "Is Lestrade leading the case?"

"No."

"Then he might be a suspect. We might be. Shame, I wanted to see the body, check something…" I stood up, and Watson just stared up at me.

"Where are you going?"

"To call a taxi."

"Why? Where are we going? I can drive, why…"

"Well, I don't want our car recognised. And I want to call my brother. And I really need some tobacco."

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Well, what I wrote at the end of the last chapter was clearly a lie. But at least now we have a murder. Reviewing, to me, btw, is like an ice cream on a sunny day- fresh, cool, yummy, makes me feel happy. So, do you want to deprive me of that? Go ahead.


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